


With Cold Hands and the Wine on Your Lips

by moonflowers



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Fluff, M/M, Outrageous Christmas Fluff, S5 spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-02
Updated: 2014-12-02
Packaged: 2018-02-27 21:25:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2707310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonflowers/pseuds/moonflowers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thomas hated to look lonely at the best of times. The fact that it was Christmas made the whole sodding affair all the more unbearable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With Cold Hands and the Wine on Your Lips

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't stop thinking about Thomas being all forever alone at Christmas. It hurts, man. This is more or less what I've decided happens in the CS, despite what actually gets shown on the screen.  
> I know a couple of people have mentioned similar ideas Christmas fic wise, so I hope I haven't trodden on any ones else's fic plans too much.
> 
> HAPPY ALMOST CHRISTMAS <3

He hated to look lonely. It was displeasing enough a thing to admit it to himself, never mind putting it out there for all and sundry to notice and discuss behind his back, which they certainly did. It was part of the reason Thomas had taken up smoking properly in his early days as a footman – he’d felt less stupid sitting there alone if he were holding a cigarette, as it at least gave the appearance of doing something. There’d been Miss O’Brien to sit with for a time, before things soured. Then came the awful year where he’d been mostly alone once more, but ranked high enough within the house that no one dared mention it openly. Then there was Jimmy. But now, once again, he kept more or less to his own company in the evenings, pretending not to notice the odd look of pity sent his way by a well-meaning Anna or Miss Baxter. Even more than appearing lonely, he hated to be pitied. If anything, it made him more determined to keep up the pretence he was perfectly fine, rather than opening up like they were clearly angling for, just to prove them wrong. 

His mood had worsened noticeably in the last week or so, as Christmas began to draw closer. Fortunately the season brought with it an increase in work to be doing, or tasks he could invent for himself about the house that he claimed were in the name of ‘wanting to do things properly,’ which kept Carson appeased at least. The rest of the staff were gratingly cheerful, as they hung garlands and hummed lines of carols, and the girls rolled pastry for mince pies in the kitchens. Thomas had loved Christmas as a boy, though a life in service had squashed a little of the enjoyment out of it, and his increasingly dour mood this year served to quell any remaining enthusiasm. There was the odd, bright moment when he was reminded of the joys of the season though – the look of childish happiness on Miss Sybbie’s face when she’d seen the enormous tree all lit up in the hall cheered him a little, and made the remainder of the day pass more pleasantly than they had of late. 

Of course, that was ruined at dinner when, face open with sincere curiosity, Anna had leant towards him and said, “I was just wondering… have you heard from James at all?”

He hadn’t, and his immediate reaction would have been to fling the newspaper he’d been looking at down on the table and scream and shout at how unjust that was, but he was old enough and wise enough to know that it was pure fancy, and would help nothing. “I haven’t, no,” he said tightly, when practicality won out.

“Oh. I thought he might have written, it coming up to Christmas and all.” She smiled, and Thomas knew it was meant in kindness, but it was as though she was rubbing salt in the wound. “You two were quite close in the end, before he left.”

“Yes. We were.” The old feelings of anger and abandonment began to flare up again, and he looked pointedly back down at the paper before they could show on his face, hoping Anna would take the hint that their conversation was finished. No, Jimmy hadn’t bothered to write to him; maybe he’d decided Thomas wasn’t such a great friend after all. But he had to believe it’d all been more than just lip service, or he’d fall apart.

~

It was hard to believe how much more he’d enjoyed the run up to Christmas last year. It hadn’t felt like much to smile about at the time – no more than usual, with the house full and a mountain of festive preparations to get through – but compared to how bloody pathetic he was feeling this year…  
He remembered one evening in particular, it must have been a week or so before the big day, or thereabouts. Thomas and Jimmy, along with a handful of others, had managed to get the evening off as a result of a bout of seasonal goodwill from Mr Carson, and spent it at the pub. The pub itself hadn’t been anything special, not that he remembered, but the walk back had stuck with him. The lot of them had emerged from the Grantham Arms in high spirits, laughing and pink-faced with drink and the chilly air, to make the long walk back up the drive to the house. One of the farmers must have had a bonfire going through the afternoon, the smell of wood smoke lay heavy across the grounds and clung to their clothes. The trees around the edge of the estate were dark and silent, with not a breath of wind to disturb the evergreens. It seemed a mundane detail to remember now, but Thomas recalled it all the same; the night air still and the moon hauntingly bright as he stuck his hands in his coat pockets against the cold. It was as though the world was holding its breath, or had simply stopped turning, leaving the people to muddle on as they may without a fuss. He could see Daisy and Madge tripping along the path ahead, arm in arm, moonlight catching on the brims of their hats and light laughter carrying back in the stillness. Jimmy was walking beside him, cap slightly askew and hair falling into his eyes. 

“Feel how cold my hands are,” he’d said, voice louder and higher than usual, as it was prone to do when he’d had a few too many.

“What – “ Thomas fell silent when Jimmy reached over to press his hand to Thomas’ cheek. His fingers were indeed chilled, but Thomas barely noticed, he was so taken aback by the touch. 

“Your face is warm though,” Jimmy said matter-of-factly as he withdrew his hand. His own face was visibly warmed and flushed from the drink. He wore a blush very prettily, Thomas thought, then admonished himself for thinking it. 

The world stuttered back into breathing again.

Thomas couldn’t remember what he’d said in reply, though he supposed he must’ve said something. At some point, Jimmy had begun to lean against him as they walked, the odd rhythm setting them stumbling along the gravel, and setting Jimmy off laughing. He got a bit like that, when he drank; either spoiling for a fight, or frustratingly clingy. Thomas usually tried to keep his distance when this happened, but this time his own good cheer kept him from doing so, and he let Jimmy bend his head close to his own as they chatted conspiratorially about God knows what, his breath warm and heavy across Thomas’ lips with the spiced wine they’d been ladling out at the pub. Looking back, he didn’t know how he’d stopped himself from closing the space between them to kiss him, languid and warm and with wine on their tongues. But of course he hadn’t. 

~

Christmas day of 1924 dawned bright and clear, not that Thomas gave a whit. It was filled with the usual silliness from the hall boys and the younger maids, most of which was overlooked with the excuse that it was Christmas, after all. The morning’s workload was a little lighter than usual, but there was enough to do that Thomas simply went through the motions without too much time to brood. Aside from the reflex response of ‘Happy Christmas,’ he didn’t say much to anyone.  
He’d spent so long in the quiet of his own head, that the excited babble of the staff Christmas meal almost came as a shock. Thomas enjoyed his food, he always had, especially when he was feeling low. It never made him feel better exactly, but it stopped him from feeling worse. He’d heard Mrs Patmore say something similar once, at the time of Lady Sybil’s funeral. It became a thing to look forward to – though that was too strong a term for it, really – just a tiny lift in the flatness of a bad day, the comfort of something warm or sweet to eat. It wasn’t as though he ate any more than usual, just that he made sure to appreciate it. He made an exception for Christmas day though, and accepted the offer for seconds enthusiastically. 

His mood turned more disagreeable again later on, when the day’s work was over and the staff settled in the servants’ hall. Some of them exchanged smaller, more personal gifts between them, after the awkwardly ceremonial gift giving from the family earlier on. The Bateses’ tender smiles and thank you’s almost hurt to look at. Thomas took part in no such exchange. He let himself stew in the corner, smoking one cigarette straight after another, on the fringes of everyone else’s merriment.  
He’d once told a blind lieutenant that he must fight his corner. He’d believed it then. He still did, really, but it seemed so much harder to follow it through. Don’t let them walk all over you, he’d said. How bloody hypocritical. Not that he was letting anyone else put him down, mind you, only himself. He couldn’t imagine the Thomas from a decade ago putting up with so much self-pity.  
All it took was for a hall boy to accidentally tread on his foot as he went past to break Thomas’ silence. He hissed something quite nasty in reprimand that the boy probably hadn’t deserved, but he apologised all the same and scurried off. The obvious looks of mingled pity and anger that met Thomas when he looked up again only made him feel worse. In a feeble attempt to make himself feel better, he said something particularly scathing to Molesley, though Miss Baxter stepped in smoothly to cut him off and put things to rights. He bid everyone a rather stony goodnight not long after that. As he headed for the stairs, he heard Daisy say his name.

“Thomas?” he turned, eyebrow raised in question at her painfully earnest expression. “Happy Christmas.”

“If you say so, Daisy,” he said, and left the room.

~

Last year, he and Jimmy had stayed up after the others had gone to bed. Thomas could barely keep his eyes open, but he wouldn’t have missed it. They didn’t buy each other gifts exactly, that would have been a bit too close to the mark, but they each consciously brought something to their own little Christmas that they knew the other would enjoy. Along with a few bits they’d pilfered from the kitchen, Jimmy had brought a selection of ridiculously indulgent biscuits, Thomas an expensive bottle of something or other he’d seen Jimmy eyeing up in the family’s drinks cabinet, and they’d shared the lot between them, sprawled over the furniture of Thomas’ bedroom until the early hours of Boxing Day. Jimmy had been draped over the chair by Thomas’ desk, half asleep and shirtsleeves rolled up, and Thomas was torn between telling the footman to get to bed, and wanting him to stay there forever. Drink made such things seem possible, no matter how cheap or expensive it may be.

“It’s nice, y’know,” Jimmy’d said drowsily, looking at Thomas with tired eyes.

“What is?” said Thomas, from where he leant against the headboard. 

“Havin’ somebody I actually like to spend Christmas with.” Jimmy frowned down at the floorboards as he spoke, as though confused by the very notion. The world had stopped breathing again, poised to listen in to the drunken sentiments of Jimmy Kent. 

Thomas was rendered mute by his admission for a moment, before his senses caught up with him and he gave the appearance of brushing his words off. “Don’t go soppy on me,” he said with a shaky laugh, “I know it’s Christmas and all, but…”

“All the more reason to say it then,” said Jimmy boldly, meeting Thomas’ stare. “Besides, I’m sloshed. If I can’t say it now, I never will, so stop looking at me like I’m mad.”

“That’s a dangerous way to live,” Thomas muttered, staring down at his own hands around his glass of brandy so he could avoid looking at the undone top buttons of Jimmy’s shirt. 

“Perhaps,” Jimmy conceded, and settled back further in the chair. It was a blasted uncomfortable thing; Thomas had no idea how he’d managed to sit in it so long. “Thomas?”

He never tired of his own name on Jimmy’s lips. “Mm?”

“Thank you.”

“I can’t think what for.”

“Just… for being here, I s’pose. I’ve not had such a nice Christmas since me parents snuffed it,” he said with far too jolly an expression for someone discussing the deaths of family members.

“That’s rather morbid. But you’re welcome, all the same.”

Jimmy just smiled at him, wide and easy, and topped up his glass. 

~

New Year came and went in a fairly dismal manner. The rain had begun the day after Boxing Day, and seemed to have settled in for the week, the windows offering a grey and desolate view of the grounds. Thomas had gone to bed as early as he could get away with on New Year’s eve, despite Mrs Hughes asking him, with the utmost sincerity, if he truly was alright; he hadn’t been himself since Christmas had gotten underway. He’d asked if the standard of his work had slipped, to which she replied it had not, and was forced to let him go. By the day of the servants’ ball the rain had let up, and the sun even put in an appearance, though it was bitterly cold, and the village folk started wittering about the likelihood of snow. 

He had to admit that, despite his misgivings, the evening had been rather fun. Lady Edith looked happier than she had done in months, years maybe, when they danced, which Thomas suspected may have had something to do with the child in the nursery who bore a striking resemblance to her. She wore happiness well. He’d danced with Lady Mary too, who didn’t seem happy exactly, but well enough, and somehow very grown up, even more so than when she was married. She was a good partner, and he enjoyed dancing with her. The dowager had declined, saying she wasn’t as young as she used to be, and that she’d much rather keep sitting and watch Thomas dance anyway. Too many sherries there, he thought, as Mrs Crawley almost choked on her wine. The downstairs ladies got their share of him too – Mrs Hughes was pleasant enough to dance with, and Miss Baxter was light on her feet (though it was rather wasted when she chose to dance nearly every dance with Mr Molesley, much to Thomas’ disgust.) Mrs Patmore was just the respectable side of tipsy, but Thomas managed to push her around the dance floor all the same, at her request. He and Daisy cut rather a fine rug. The two of them were grinning as they danced the foxtrot, and it struck Thomas how much heartbreak the pair of them had seen, and despite Daisy’s cheery chatter, he suddenly didn’t feel quite so merry any more. When the dance ended, he bundled Daisy off onto a gangly hall boy, and slipped away before the next dance. 

He went out of the front door, because it seemed miles closer than the back, and there was no one there to tell him not to. When the cold air hit him, the few drinks he’d had caught up with him all at once, and his hands were clumsy as he lit a cigarette. How long he stood smoking, he wasn’t sure exactly, but it was long enough for his lack of coat to take its toll, and he shivered. Feel how cold my hands are. He shook his head to clear it of the phantom words as, cliché of all clichés, it began to snow. Glaring at the sky as though it would make a difference, he resolved to finish off his cig as quick as he could and get back inside before the snow got heavier. Bout of melancholy or no, he didn’t want the hassle of trying to dry out his suit. It had been quite a pleasant evening, and he felt a little annoyed with himself for ruining it with the return of his black mood. His being resentful would solve nothing, not that knowing so made it any easier to stop.

A shift in the darkness caught his eye and he squinted down the drive, just about making out a figure coming up towards the house. He had no bloody idea who it could be at this hour – it must have been after midnight – and in the cold, too. It couldn’t have been too much of an emergency, or they’d have been in a car, or running at the very least. Well, whatever they had to say, they could say to him. His presence would be obvious enough to the intruder, stood as he was slightly to the side of the house, but directly under one of the large outside lamps. He felt that old, instinctual tingle of satisfaction at being the first one in on the event, whatever it may be. Information was always valuable, in some way or another. He was not so changed by age and heartbreak to have forgotten that. It may have been the alcohol, or just a trick of the dim light between the snowflakes, but Thomas could have sworn the approaching figure was one he knew. As they drew closer to the abbey, and the dull gold of the lamps hit them, there was no mistaking who it was.

“Jimmy…”

Once the name made it past his lips, Thomas found himself stuck for anything else to say. He thought they’d never meet again, but for in fantasy. He groped for something dull and safe to talk about, something about the weather perhaps, or work. It would sound horribly banal, and Jimmy wouldn’t much care for it and neither would he, but it might stop him saying something stupid. He tried to think of something sensible, but he’d had a few drinks and it was _Jimmy,_ and he could find no words at all, but simply stared at the man in front of him.

“Hello.” Jimmy looked up from under the brim of his hat with a half-smile, almost bashful, made tense by nerves.

“Why are you here?” Thomas blurted the first words that came into his head. It certainly wouldn’t be to discuss the weather, and it was an awfully long way to come just to say hello. _A bloomin’ letter would have done for that._

“I’m out of a job,” he began, eyes darting between the ground and Thomas’ face. “I went down to London, after I… left here. Tried a few places, worked as a waiter for a bit,” he grimaced, “but I couldn’t stick anything for long. I ended up a footman in a small household, but the man of the house died and they wanted to cut back. Last in, first to go, so to speak,” he smiled, a funny little curl of his lips that Thomas knew meant irritation more than humour. “Wrote me a good reference though.”

“Why didn’t you write?” said Thomas, because he suddenly remembered he didn’t give a hang about Jimmy’s recent employment records, he’d had months, months, and Jimmy hadn’t bothered to pen one sodding word to him. Not one. No ‘I’ve got to London safely,’ no ‘I’ve found a new job, don’t worry,’ no ‘how are you?’ Nothing.

For a moment, Jimmy looked genuinely pained, and Thomas wasn’t sure if he felt satisfied or sorry that he’d been the one to cause it. “I did tell you,” the ex-footman said, defensive, “I told you I’m bloody awful at words, and at feelings, and even worse when I have to put them down on paper.” He swallowed, before adding quietly, “I did try you know.”

Thomas was momentarily cowed by the sincerity that shook Jimmy’s voice, but it didn’t stop him from muttering, “well, you could have tried harder.”

Jimmy narrowed his eyes at him, frowning, and Thomas was suddenly worried he hadn’t been eating enough – his face looked sharper. Or maybe his view of Jimmy had always been a little softer than the reality. It was hard to say. “It was easier – “ Jimmy began abruptly, then stopped as if he hadn’t intended to say anything at all. “It was easier, after I left. To pretend that I didn’t… When I couldn’t see you every day, I could pretend none of it ever happened, that I was normal.” Thomas cringed at this particular analogy, after his own recent foolish foray into attempting ‘normality.’ “Except maybe this feels more normal, I don’t know…” he continued, and in his state of tipsiness and mild shock Thomas had rather lost the thread of what Jimmy was saying. Not that he’d made it easy to follow to begin with. “But then it was new year’s eve, and all the staff had a drink and wished each other well and all that rubbish, and I realised how ruddy miserable I was. It were the start of a brand new year, and I felt like that sort of wrote over all of the last year like it never happened, and I thought it might be a good thing to start afresh and all, but then I realised it would be like I’d overwritten you too, like we’d never even met. Do you see?” he looked up at Thomas, imploringly.

“Not really,” said Thomas, but Jimmy didn’t seem to hear him, and carried on regardless, the words tripping over themselves as they fell from his lips.

“The thought that I were about to start a whole new year, one that I might not see you in at all, was awful. I wanted to see you.” Jimmy looked up at him with wide eyes, as though his own words had caught him off guard. “I – I wanted to start the new year with you. I mean, I know I’m a few days late, I had to finish off packing and such before I left the family, but… that’s not important.” He shook his head in frustration at his own rambling. “I want to start every new year with you, Mr Barrow. Thomas.” His face softened a little, though concern was still etched into every arch and curve. “And… and I’m only sorry that it took me leavin’ you behind to realise it.” 

Thomas found himself utterly speechless, a rare occurrence. He usually thought himself rather good at coming up with something on the spot to say to save his skin, and Jimmy’s too, once or twice. But the implications of what Jimmy had just confessed left him stunned. It couldn’t be possible.

“Say something, won’t you?” said Jimmy roughly, nervous little smile back in place.

“You can’t really expect me to believe this, Jimmy,” Thomas said, a little shakily. It was all he ever wanted to hear, and after all he’d struggled through it seemed far, far too easy to have Jimmy stroll back up the drive and confess all. “After all the bollocks you gave me about how I’m… how I felt about you. You can’t expect me believe you’ve suddenly changed your mind.” As much as he’d like to.

The tentative smile was wiped from Jimmy’s face. “Of course not!” he said. “But you know I – we’ve been friends Thomas. For months, years even, after all that mess. And no, I don’t ask you to forget how awful things got between us for a while, but I did expect you to remember the time we’ve spent together since.” 

“I – “ Thomas felt his throat tighten. Bloody hell, he’d better not start blubbing. “I’m sorry, Jimmy. It’s just that… I’m just surprised to see you back.”

“Pleased too though, I hope?” said Jimmy softly.

“Of course,” in spite of himself Thomas smiled a little, for the sheer joy of him being there. “It’s just…” he paused to think of a neat way to say what he wanted, but at this point, there didn’t seem to be much use for anything but honesty. “Jimmy, the last night you were here, you left me standing in the hall while you went to a lady’s bed. And yes, we have been friends, the best of friends, but what makes you so suddenly sure you want this? You’ve always been a terrible flirt – you know it’s true, don’t argue – and so adamant about how much you enjoy the company of ladies.” His mouth twisted in distaste. “What’s changed?”

“I already told you that,” said Jimmy desperately, “I missed you. And it weren’t sudden. Even before I left, even before I went to her room, I…”

“You what, Jimmy?” 

Jimmy took a breath, visibly holding himself together. “It weren’t sudden. You keep saying that, but it weren’t,” he shook his head. “I don’t rightly know when it started, though I suppose it’s been sneaking up on me for… well, ever such a long time now. I sort of knew I suppose, but it was easier to ignore it, put it down to us being such good friends – I think you might be the only proper friend I ever had, you know.”

Thomas snorted, though the thought made his chest ache. “Mm, lucky you.”

“And the girls… I never felt anything for them, not really. Not Ivy, nor Lady Anstruther, blimey not even that girl from the pub who were always winking at me while she poured our drinks. I never felt like that, didn’t think I could feel like that, about anyone until I knew you. Not for a girl, and not for… not for another man either.” He swallowed, colour high in his cheeks, and looked to the floor again. “Like I said, I didn’t realise it properly until new year.”

Thomas shook his head, words failing him again, and oh bugger he really was going to cry. He put off having to say anything much himself in favour of asking another question. “What exactly is it you want from me, Jimmy?” 

“You really want me to say it?”

“Yes, Jimmy. Bloody hell, if you can’t say it then how can we – “ he was cut off as Jimmy darted forward and pressed their lips together, in far too inelegant a manner to be called a kiss. But it was too fleeting and precious a thing for Thomas to waste time criticising technique. 

“I’ve wanted to do that for ever so long,” Jimmy said when he pulled away, looking horribly embarrassed, but determined even more so. “So long, and I didn’t even know it. I love you, Thomas Barrow,” he said with finality, before his face fell a little in concern. “You still love me, don’t you?” he added hurriedly with a tremor to his voice, as though this was a factor he hadn’t considered. 

“Of course I bloody do,” said Thomas quietly, still reeling from Jimmy’s kiss. For better or worse, he’d always love Jimmy Kent. 

“Right,” said Jimmy with a nod, bolstered by Thomas’ quiet assurance, “well, I love you too, and I’m not about to ruddy let you go now I’ve finally realised it.” 

“That’s alright by me,” said Thomas softly, but the happiness he should have been feeling was tempered by doubt. He’d wanted Jimmy so absolutely for so long, with no hope of anything more than friendship, that it was difficult to accept. “You’re sure about this?” He had to be absolutely certain there was no misunderstanding; Lord knows they’d had enough of that. He couldn’t bear to be offered this only to have it snatched away.

“Bloody hell Thomas,” said Jimmy, now looking a bit teary himself, “I never thought you’d take so much convincing.” He reached up to take Thomas’ face into his hands and kissed him, impossibly soft. Thomas’ face was so chilled he could barely feel Jimmy’s cold palms on his face. But he could feel the heat of his tongue, and his lips, his breath warm on his cheek. Thomas firmly believed it to be the best moment of his life, though he’d be hard pressed to admit something so damn soft out loud. They held each other loosely under the lamps of the abbey for some time, snow falling softly about them and catching in their hair and clothes, and Thomas would’ve been disgusted by how soppy the whole thing was, if he wasn’t so bloody happy. 

“I still can’t quite – you came back. For me?” It was beyond comprehension that things had shaped up in a semblance of how Thomas had wished them to. It had happened on occasion before, though in comparison to having Jimmy’s love, those other times seemed pale and insubstantial, like thin clouds over a vibrant sky. He hoped the feeling of elation would last longer, this time.

Jimmy rolled his eyes in such an achingly familiar show of exasperation, that Thomas found it hard not to gather him up close again and never let go. “Well it weren’t for the scenery.”

“Cheeky,” said Thomas, and Jimmy ducked his head to press a cold-lipped kiss to Thomas’ jaw. It was new and clumsy and utterly perfect. “They’ll be wondering where we’ve gotten to,” he said reluctantly, when he could no longer feel his toes and thoughts of the warm kitchen grew more tempting by the moment.

“Not me,” said Jimmy. “I don’t work here anymore, remember?”

“Right, of course.” In all the fuss, that detail had somehow slipped Thomas’ mind. “What’re we going to do with you then, hm?”

“I don’t know. Like I said, I’ve no job in London anymore, so there’s nothing to keep me there. I thought I’d love the hustle and bustle of city life again, the clubs, the drink, and the music,” he smiled, and his fingers curled a little tighter around Thomas’ middle, “though it loses its charm a bit when you have to do it all alone.” Thomas nodded. The feeling of being alone in a room full of people was one he was intimately familiar with. “I thought I might have a look for something close to Downton. Close to you.”

“And what’ll you do exactly? Mend the roads or pull pints in the pub?” Thomas said, to cover how moved he was by Jimmy’s last mumbled words. 

“It doesn’t bloody matter does it?” said Jimmy a touch sharply, and Thomas fought the urge to reach up and stroke his hair to soothe him, “as long as we can be close to each other.”

“No. No I don’t think it does.”

“Bloomin’ right it doesn’t,” Jimmy muttered into Thomas’ shoulder, words muffled by the fabric of his jacket.

“Mm. We’ll think of something,” said Thomas, as he gave in and lifted a hand to the back of Jimmy’s head, fingers running through the hair of his nape. It was alarmingly nice to have to plan for two, not just for himself, a sentiment that surprised him. He’d not let them be separated again.

“Thank you, Thomas.” Jimmy spoke with such sincerity, that Thomas got the feeling he didn’t just mean to thank him for his plans for their future, but for everything – for waiting, for loving him, for simply being there. “Thank you.”

The world let out the breath it had been holding and fell into an easy rhythm, a steady, contented in-and-out, most likely to be punctuated by the odd skip or sigh when things looked particularly well or ill. But they could worry about the details later. For now, they had each other, fully and unconditionally. At last.


End file.
